The situation is this:

I am sitting on a rather uncomfortable, wooden chair in a small room in Neukölln.

In front of me is a brown desk, and on top of it lies a black notebook in which I am writing these words.

To my left, a cup of the finest Matcha-iri genmaicha tea gives off its familiar rice-tinted fumes into the cold winter air.

To my right lies a loaded gun, and behind me a string of more or less considered choices.

And their consequences.

I first came to this city in 1986, when I’d had enough of my shitty little home-town.

I had not planned to end up here, but a lot of the music I was interested in at the time came out of here.

Bands like Einstürzende Neubauten.

Neue Deutsche Welle.

I made some ideas about how the city would be like when I listened to this music.

Ideas that turned out to be all wrong.

But as another long and dark winter had started losening its grip back home that year, I had bought an Interrail-ticket for the summer, which meant that I could go wherever I wanted around Europe for a month.

So as summer approached, I caught a coach to the nearest town with a railway station, and jumped on the first train towards the south.

From there on I could relax and follow the tracks wherever they would take me.

Not that there were that many options.

There seldom are with train tracks.

But I soon found myself racing down the west coast of Sweden, and after a short ferry journey, the east coast of Denmark.

Arriving in Copenhagen, I didn’t really know where to go to next, so I just got off at the station to get some cigarettes and food.

In that order.

I checked the board for possible transits, and found that a train to Amsterdam would leave in less than an hour.

I decided that Amsterdam was the place to go.

As I made the decision, I could feel my shoulders ease from the usual tension, and life felt better than ever.

No plans. 

No schedule. 

Just the freedom to do whatever I pleased at any given moment.

They way I wanted it to be.

When the train pulled up, I got on, rigged myself in a seat, and pulled my Sony Walkman out of my bag.

I put on one of my mixtapes, and stared absently out the window at the people hurrying about the platform outside, when my eyes caught a familiar face.

It was a friend of mine from back home.

He smiled as he saw me through the window, and I got up and lowered it.

“What are you doing here?”, he asked.

“I’m not sure, actually”, I answered, “But it seems I’m going to Amsterdam.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Mind if I join you?”, he replied.

I didn’t.

He was my kind of guy.

As we rolled out of the station, sat face to face in the train coupé, armoured with a set of headphones each, I knew his would be a companionship of minimal verbal conversation, which suited me perfectly.

The entire trip to Amsterdam was spent looking out the window and changing tapes when they ran out, only abrupted by regular walks down the isle to the smoking carriage for a cigarette or two.

When we finally arrived at Amsterdam Centraal, we grabbed our backpacks and walked out of the station, where our future plans ended.

Looking around the crowd of tourists, junkies and hustlers, we decided to sit down on the ground to see if any new plans emerged.

It was early in the evening, and as we had no idea of where to stay the night, we decided to postpone any decicion on the topic.

Instead, we started walking up towards the Red Light District, where we knew there were some coffee shops.

I didn’t smoke dope regularly, but had been familiar with it ever since a school trip in 8th grade, when a girl I used to hang out with in class took me to the side and snuck us off into the woods.

She sat us down under a tree and pulled a chillum pipe out of her handbag, lit it up and handed it to me.

I smoked, and was underwhelmed, as with most things.

But the Amsterdam coffee shops were still a curiousity to a Scandinavian youth in the eighties, and we didn’t know what else to do, getting stoned seemed a feasible option.

We found a place that seemed not too popular, picked out a couple of bags of weed at the counter, and sat down by a table and rolled up.

I pulled the walkman out of my bag and handed my friend the extra headphones.

Then we disappeared into the music as clouds of smoke filled the air.

Night had started falling when the batteries of the Sony had lost enough power to make us notice the slowing-down of the music.

We decided that we might as well start looking for somewhere to stay the night, and got up and left the café.

Walking the Amsterdam streets at night with heavy eyelids and backpacks is a clear giveaway, and soon enough we were hit by a hustler whose job was luring young, stoned tourists to stay at a hostel-ship down by the harbour.

We didn’t disappoint his judgement, and followed him back through the train-station to the dark areas beyond.

As we registered at the front desk, the Pied Piper of stoned backpackers got his commission, and disappeared into the night, hunting whatever was on his list of cravings.

We were still loaded with a selection of pretty potent grass, so as soon as we settled in our cabin, we put in some new batteries in the Sony, put on a set of headphones each, smoked as much as we could handle, and drifted off to sleep on a cloud of cotton.

We both slept well into the next day, and only got up when the heat and stench of sewers that filled the boat reached its bearable threshold.

Packed up, and on our way out to hit the town for some late breakfast, we stumbled upon a couple of German backpackers in the corridor outside the cabin.

Two giggling white boys with dreadlocks, playing dub reggae off the boombox that one of them carried.

After exchanging formalities in the usual backpacker lingo (“Where are you from?”, “Where are you going?” and “Mind if we join you?”), all four headed towards town in the baking sun, armed with fresh expectations and hungry stomacs.

It turned out the guys were from Berlin, and the conversation soon turned into one of music.

And of politics.

The kind that demanded big changes to the status quo, without presenting any real alternatives.

Youthful willpower at its best.

We agreed on what we thought to be the problems of the world, and as if to celebrate the political breakthough, sat down and rolled a joint at the first coffee-shop we could find who served food and actual coffee.

After a string of joints, several cups of coffee, and a selection of foods that started out quite nutritious, and gradually ended up consisting of little more than sugar due to the amount of weed smoked, we thanked each other for the sharing of goods and the chat.

Then we headed in each our directions, but not before exchanging phone-numbers and a “If you ever find yourself in Berlin, we have plenty of room in our squat.”

The pair of blonde dreadlocks disappeared back down in the direction of the harbour, and me and my friend decided our ways also parted here.

We shook hands with a smile and few words, knowing both agreed that the best of times had been had.

I sat down on the sidewalk, had a cigarette, and wondered what to do with all my freedom.

I decided to check out the Van Gogh museum.

For no particular reason, I’d had quite a passionate hang-up with the painter, which was actually rather strange, as my interest in art in general was totally absent.

The art world belonged to old people.

Irrelevant people.

But Vincent had caught my interest, and I’d read all the biographies I could find on his rather sorry life.

Creating a strange resonance, that I didn’t understand at the time.

And even though I though I knew what to expect, as I entered the first hall in the museum, I was totally taken by surprise at my own reaction to the paintings now that I could see them in the flesh, and not just as dodgy reproductions in Taschen books.

The sunflowers were alive.

Vincent’s stare more intense than any real eyes I’ve ever looked into.

Works of Magick, charged with the soul he so painfully, but willingly gave away.

I ended up walking around the museum until closing time, and by the time I was on my way out, I felt Amsterdam had shown me all it had to offer for now.

Walking down towards the Centraal Station in the evening sun, I knew I had to keep up the flow I was in, and didn’t offer a thought about where to go next.

Inside the station, the information board listed an upcoming train to Paris, and as I couldn’t find any reasonable objections I decided Paris to be up next.

But as I was waiting on the platform, another train came rolling in before it, with “Cologne” spelled out in bright luminous letters above its front doors.

So Cologne it would be.

The first part of the journey was uneventful, although my inner voices were busy making up fantasy scenarios about what would be expecting me.

Then I fell asleep.


Lies. Lies. Lies.

Don’t believe a word I’ve been saying!

Or, believe some.

But be sceptical.

As any informed person should be.

Yes, it’s true that I was born in the Arctic, and yes, my dad was a captain at sea.

I also have two brothers.

But the actual truth is, my childhood was nothing like I described in my previous story.

It was dead boring.

My dad being away half the time, and this being Norway in the seventies – before we discovered vast amounts of oil in the North Sea and became one of the most priviledged nations in the world, meant we didn’t have much when I was little.

We didn’t travel anywhere on holiday, or have a car, so we could drive the four to five hours it took us to get to the nearest town, Narvik, where they had a train station that connected them to the rest of Scandinavia through Sweden.

We didn’t even go on weekend trips to Northern Finland to buy cheap meat, as most of my friends’ families did.

We were stuck.

I remember the seventies as a dull mix of long silences mid conversation, middle-aged men smoking on TV and shades of faded green curtains, only interrupted by the odd orange and brown striped knitted sweater.

And shit music.

Lots of it.

Progressive rock performed by balding dinosaurs, and pop songs with lyrics describing the sadness of dying from cancer just as summer set in.

I liked Hot Butter’s “Popcorn”, though, and later on, when I got a cassette tape of Kraftwerk’s “Man Machine” from a friend, everything clicked into place.

I remember it well.

I was sitting in my room, assembling a DIY electronics kit that promised to function both as an FM radio AND a tone generator. 

I put on “The Robots” and my life instantly had meaning. 

I was 11 years old by then.

But more of that later.

Most of my childhood days were pretty uneventful.

I spent my free time skiing in the winter, which lasted for 7-8 months, or playing with other kids out in the woods during the short, sunny summers.

The summers seemed to last for an eternity back then.

I guess that is a good thing.

On rainy days I liked building fantasy structures with Lego in my room.

Creating miniature worlds.

A tiny plastics mason.

Playing God.

I had friends, though.

They came and went as our fields of interests changed.

None of them became lifelong acquaintances.

Some due to their bad taste in music.

And I had girlfriends.

I was far too young, of course.

But so were they.

Still we kissed in the dark.

Which I liked.

Otherwise there’s not much I can recall that would be worth telling you about.

After the uneventful seventies, the transition into the eighties felt like an opening of floodgates of possibilities.

It would become the decade during which my future was shaped.

I was 14 in 1980.

Punk had already happened in the UK, without much notice to us.

London was far from the Polar Circle back then.

Mind you, one of my friends bought “Never mind the bollocks” by The Sex Pistols when it was released in 1977, but I didn’t really like the music, although I could relate to the energy it radiated.

But anyway I had already discovered Kraftwerk.

It seemed to me that punk was all about destroying the past, whereas electronic music was about building the future.

I would rather be on the building team.

Luckily, in the years that followed the shift into the new decade, lots of new and exciting music started arriving.

Along with otherworldly looks.

But the music that hit me the most when I was 14 years old, was decorated with the black and white squares of 2 Tone Records.

It was music that moved me.

The beats.

The attitude.

The message.

When the quirky Norwegian answer to the new British ska wave turned up in the shape of The Aller Værste, I instantly became a fan.

I still am.

On another side of the musical spectrum, weird sounds from California started arriving by mail-order.

San Francisco’s Ralph Records provided me the avant-garde sounds and hallucinatory imagery of The Residents, and the art-rock genius of Tuxedomoon.

A proper education.

At 15 I played drums in a post-punk band, trying to fuse all of my influences into an original style.

We ended up sounding like a typical New Wave band.

And by now I was mostly listening to synth pop anyway.

Enter the drum machines.

In the band I was trying to keep the time like a Linn Drum.

Failing, of course.

So soon I was selling my drum kit, got a job as a cleaner, and saved up enough money to buy my first drum machine. 

A Roland TR-808.

In 1983.

Me and my friends got hold of some synths.

Korg MS-20’s and Roland SH-09’s.

And went for instant bedroom superstardom.

We stayed up all night, drank endless mugs of instant coffee and smoked cigarettes, trying to get the machines to obey our visions.

Most of the time they didn’t.

But we had fun.

Apart from the odd tape release, and local gigs, none of our efforts succeeded in connecting us to the rest of the world, or the sub-cultures that inspired us.

So however much we wanted to communicate, detachment was all I felt.

A disconnection from the “real world” that I imagined existed elsewhere.

So I left.

Never looking back.

Until now.

And as I’m sitting here, in a small rented room in Berlin, all of the above events seem to have happened aeons ago.

The sequence of choices that brought me here are impossible to undo.

Bridges have been burnt.

And I have a brand new choice to make.

One that might mean life or death.

A basic, binary problem.


It was there.

In the garden.

That I saw her. 

I was ready to run off and play in the woods, but just as I walked out the door, she stood there.

Leaning against the wall.

She wore a red dress, with swirly black patterns printed on.

Her long, dark hair was braided.

She smiled at me, and then quickly ran away.

And I died.

Instantly following the few seconds that our eyes met, a swirling sensation welled out from the earth beneath me.

It entered the soles of my shoes and rushed up through my legs.

When it hit my belly, it exploded into a million pieces of swarming invisible insects, trying to get out.

The wave hit my heart, and ripped it open.

All I could see, was a cloud of vibrating particles that flickered in all the colours I knew.

And some new ones that I didn’t.

What seemed like a far too short eternity passed.

Then I could hear the voice of my mother calling my name.

It sounded as if she was standing at the bottom of a deep well.

I slowly returned to my normal senses.


I have been looking for the girl ever since.


A couple of weeks had passed since the incident with the new door opening in my entryway and the flying red triangle abducting me.

The first few days after it happened, I had just felt totally robbed of all energy.

I slept a lot, and only got up to eat very light meals.

I didn’t even feel like drinking coffee, which was very unusual.

I reassured my wife that I had probably caught a light flu or something similar, and that I just needed to rest a little.

I told her nothing about the incident.

She was content with my explanation, even if she found it a bit surprising that I should be sick so suddenly, as it didn’t happen very often that I had any health problems.

To make things seem more natural, and to buy myself some time, I called my doctor and had her write a medical certificate to send off to work.

Towards the end of the week, I started feeling better, but somehow I couldn’t get myself back into focusing on my usual routines.

I felt that I had to try and understand what had happened to me, however surreal it was.

My approach to life has always been quite rational, and I found the only way to attack this situation was to try and make sense of it.

At first, I had to decide whether the whole thing had been a hallucination , due to some unknown medical reason, or if what had happened was as real as anything else I was experiencing.

The latter seemed the most believable conclusion, as all my senses had been intact throughout the experience, and I could remember every little detail.

For some reason I was very preoccupied with the peculiar shape of the thing that had encapsulated me, and elevated me into the skies that day.

I felt that it was somehow essential.

So I sat down by my computer and started searching for more information on triangular shapes.

Even though I have a basic understanding of geometry, I discovered that there was a lot to learn.

I eventually learned that a triangular object where all sides and angles are equal, is called a Tetrahedron, and that this is the first of five fundamental shapes known as the Platonic Solids.

The Platonic Solids are the only five objects in three-dimensional space where all its sides and angles are equal.

I found it very interesting, especially as I hadn’t been aware of any of this before, in spite of it being fairly basic knowledge about the world we live in.

But even after I had read about the Platonic Solids for hours, there was no indication that any of them were supposed to talk to you, or abduct you from your entryway in the morning.

That part was still a grey area.

The weekend passed, I felt that I needed more time, and called my doctor again on Monday morning to ask for another week to rejuvenate.

This time she sounded a little more concerned, and asked me if I could come down to her office and do some tests, but after I reassured her that this was nothing more than a light flu, that I could already feel was loosening its grip, she agreed to write an extended medical report for work.

I hung up, put on some loose and comfy clothes, made myself a cup of weak coffee, and sat down by my desk in the small home office we had converted our oldest’s son’s room into when he moved out.

The day was spent reading more and gradually getting lost in a rabbit hole of suspicious websites linking geometrical shapes to frequency spectrums and levitating boulders. 

Some claimed that any form in the universe functions as an “antenna” for specific “energies”.

Needless to say, to someone with a thirty year career working with electronics, relating to the basic laws of electricity and electromagnetism every day, this sounded pretty out there, and probably was.

But it was still not as crazy as my own experience from the previous Monday would sound to anyone with a basic understanding of psychology.

I kept reading and followed any lead I could find, as weird as they came, until the entire day had passed and my wife came home from her day shift.

I could see her surprise at finding me in the clothes I was wearing.

I didn’t often wear comfy clothes, not even at home.

She showed some real concern when I told her I still hadn’t gone to work.

“But you always go to work. You’re an always going to work person!”, she said over dinner.

I thought about this, how I was defined only by my habits, and not by how I experienced the world.

It somehow felt unfair.

“Maybe I’m more than one person?”, I heard myself answer.

She stared at me.

“You realise that that’s a very strange thing to say?”.

She gave me a cold look, as if I had betrayed her in some way.

Maybe I had.

I avoided talking about the subject for the rest of the evening, and waited until she went upstair to bed.

After another couple of hours in front of the computer, I was too tired to take in any more information, and decided to go to bed.

The last thing I do before brushing my teeth, is turning off all the lights in the house.

This includes going down the stairs to the entryway on the ground floor, and check the switch for the outdoor lamp, and double-check if the door is locked.

It usually is.

As I switched off the light and turned around to go back up, I stopped mid-movement.

A dim, greenish glow drew up an outline of the new door on the wall.

It gradually got more and more intense, until the door was penetrated by beams of light and eventually dissolved.

In the doorway, a rotating, green cube appeared.

“This is not who you are.”, it said, and then I was lifted me across the room and sucked  into its interior, just as the Tetrahedron had done the previous Monday.

Confined inside the square, I could see that it had the same gradient quality as the Tetrahedron, as if its walls were made up of a fog-like texture.

Again, the feeling of movement started.

I wouldn’t suggest that I’d gotten used to the experience in any way, but this time I felt a little calmer.

The shaking and moving went on for much longer than in my last experience, and I decided it was best to just keep quiet and wait for whatever destination I was headed for.

As I sat there, I noticed a subtle humming sound, like a low frequency drone, probably less than one hundred cycles per second.

It felt as if it was coming from all directions, from the very fabric of the cube.

This, combined with the green glow made me feel surprisingly comfortable.

Maybe I was getting used to the experience, and even a little excited about what would come next.

After a while the humming sound dropped in frequency until it was below the listening spectre.

Simultaneously, the sense of movement ended.

And everything went still.

I kept looking at the walls, and noticed that they had turned semi-transparent.

Outside, I could see that it was dark, and that I was sat in an open, grassy field.

Above me a starry sky opened up, and at the edges of the field I could see trees, and also some buildings in the distance.

There was also glow of light from behind the buildings that gave me the impression that I was not totally out in the wilderness, but rather at the outskirts of a city.

Eventually the walls of the cube dissolved completely, and I now found myself sitting on the grass, which felt warm and comfortable.

It puzzled me to find myself in a hot summer’s evening, a far cry from the snowy November night I had just been in back home.

I rose to my feet, and looked around.

The sounds of insects provided a suitable soundtrack to the setting.

The cube was nowhere to be seen now, and no voices spoke neither inside or outside my head.

I felt strangely at ease, and wondered what to make of all this.

Then, as an impulse coming from somewhere hitherto unknown to me, I started moving on the grass.

At first, I just swayed in the warm breeze, but then I started swirling around.

I was dancing.

Still wearing my pyjamas, with no shoes on, the sensation of the grass under my feet got more and more intense, and eventually made me feel that I was being caressed by the earth, returning its love by dancing, like a child would.

An unimaginable joy rose inside me, and I started smiling and giggling uncontrollably.

I swirled and danced with a sense of freedom that I couldn’t recall having felt ever before.

I looked at my hands, and discovered that there were beams of light shining out of them in the most brilliant colours I’ve ever seen.

I gazed at the apparent magic unfolding before my eyes, and saw that as I made gestures with my hands, the light-beams would form little wheels of light in numerous colours.

I started throwing the light-wheels out into the air.

A complete and utter happiness filled me, and for the first time I could recall, I sensed a near endless love for everything inside and around me.

The colour-wheels flew across the meadow, over the trees and towards the buildings in the city in the distance.

I laughed aloud, and moved like floating in warm, liquid air.

Looking at my feet, I watched the grass pressing up around them as I moved, and I suddenly felt a limitless love for the ground beneath me.

I stopped dancing and knelt down, spreading my arms as I laid down on my belly.

I realised that the love I felt was for the planet below me.

A warm, breathing, living thing that provided me with everything I could ever wish for.


As I hugged the earth, I started crying.

I laid there, holding on to the Earth, hoping this would last for an eternity.

Then, without warning, I was lifted up and sucked back into the cube, that was now placed in the middle of the field. 

I could hear my own desperate cries, as coming from a child being separated from its mother, but in no time I found myself back inside the green cube. It started moving, and the humming sound returned.

The voice inside my returned, and said: “THAT is who you are!”

Whereby I was spat out back onto the chilly stone floor of my entryway.

Helpless as a newborn, I curled up and started sobbing uncontrollably on the cold floor.


In the days following the new door incident, I tried my best to ignore the whole thing.

I’d become quite good at ignoring irrelevant matters over the years.

But this one turned out to be a tricky one.

One evening, after I had cleaned the kitchen and was about to go to bed, I went downstairs to turn off the lights in the entryway.

As I did, and everything went dark, I saw it again.

The door was back, and this time a bright light was seeping out around its contours, as if there was bright daylight at the other side.

I froze and stared at the door.

Not because I was scared, strangely enough, but because this didn’t fit in with the idea I had about my life.

The concept of me.

Up until that point, everything had had its own place, and there were very little unexpected happening.

Sure I might slip on the ice from time to time when out shopping groceries, but wearing spikes would easily take care of such unforeseen and unwanted events, and I never got seriously injuried or broke anything.

Bills were paid in time, family relationships were stable, if somewhat uneventful, and my health was pretty good for my age.

The door simply didn’t fit in, and the daylight behind it added to the feeling of disharmony.

As I stood there staring at it, the glow from around its edges slowly faded, and it was gone again.

Again, I chose to ignore it, and again, I probably added to the impact of the powers that were waiting for me just around the corner.

Behind the door, to be more exact.

I went to bed, hoping it would go away and not come back.

A few days passed with nothing strange happening, and then it struck again.

It was a Monday.

I hadn’t slept very well.

I usually try to get a good rest before the start of a new week, but as I had gone to bed the night before, I just couldn’t rest.

All kinds of thoughts kept racing through my mind.

People I hadn’t seen in decades and totally had forgotten existed, suddenly popped up in my memory.

Unimportant events from different parts of my life materialised before my inner eye.

Without any apparent reason.

When I eventually fell asleep, it was the middle of the night, and the last thing I remember thinking was that the next day would be rough.

It turned out to be an accurate prediction.

After my morning ritual, which was followed by an extra double espresso this particular morning, I went downstairs to put on my shoes, scarf and coat and leave for work.

As I was kneeling down to tie my laces, I got an eerie feeling of being watched from behind.

I turned around, still squatting on the floor, and stared at the wall where the mirror should be.

Again, I froze.

The door was wide open.

Behind it, a bright light beamed out and blinded me.

I instinctively put one hand in front of my face, and after adjusting to the light, I could see that something was standing in the doorway.

At first I couldn’t make out if it was a small person, or an animal.

It felt very much alive.

But there, in a new doorway in what used to be my familiar entryway wall, a red, shiny, triangular shape was now hovering.

Floating in the air.

Spinning slowly.

As it did, it revealed four perfectly shaped triangular sides.

I kept staring at it for what seemed like minutes.

Still kneeling, with one shoe on.

Then, to my surprise, the shape said: “Come!”

And before I could process the command, or think of a good answer, I got sucked up from the floor, lifted across the entryway, and swallowed by the formation in the doorway.

In what seemed like no time, I was inside a small, red room with triangular walls.

The bowels of the thing.

It was both claustrophobically small and endlessly vast at the same time.

I somehow couldn’t grasp where its walls began or ended, they had a kind of gradient quality to them.

Suddenly it felt as if I was moving vertically at high speed, but I couldn’t see anything that I could relate my own position to.

I kept my mouth shut, as I was still too puzzled to speak.

After a few seconds I managed to open it and ask: “Where are we going?”

“To the source”, the shape answered.

Strangely content with the answer, I kept quiet for the rest of the time that it felt like we were moving.

Then the feeling of movement abruptly stopped.

And then, without warning, the walls of the room dissolved.

That’s when I got scared.

I now found myself hanging in thin air, several hundred meters above the city.

I could see the cable-car’s upper terminal far below, and scattered clouds both around me and above me.

It was freezing cold, as if to remind me that I was physically present, and not just dreaming.

The voice of the shape appeared again, this time from inside my head.

“This is all you have.”, it said.

“A unique perspective.”

“You own nothing, not even your own personality.”

“All the ideas you have about who you are, are constructions.”

“You only have this.”

Gasping in the cold air, paralysed by vertigo, I found no response.

“Let’s have a closer look.”, the voice said, and I instantly fell towards the ground.

I tried to scream, but there was no sound.

I felt totally powerless.

Just as I thought I was about to hit a rooftop that came zooming towards me, I stopped in the middle of the air just a few meters above the house.

I recognised it.

It was my own.

But it was different somehow.

Firstly, the house seemed to be about double the size of what it actually should be.

Then, as if by magic, the roof dissolved and disappeared.

I could now see the layout of the different rooms, and everything seemed familiar. 

I looked closer, and saw that all the rooms were correctly laid out.

I had been involved in both drawing and building the house, so I knew it very well.

All the rooms were there.

All the furniture.

All the familiar mess.

Except that the outer wall facing East had been changed.

Instead of being the outer end of the house, this wall had now been replaced with a higher and much thicker inner wall.

On the other side of this new wall, the building continued for what seemed like the exact length of the original house.

And I realised that this other part was exactly identical, only it was mirrored.

I quickly scanned all the rooms to confirm that the details were correct, as if to confirm the existence of this new part of the house.

And that’s when I saw it.

In our bedroom, someone was lying on my bed.

It was me.

I quickly shifted my focus to the other side of the house.

In the mirroring bedroom, on the side of the bed that would be mine in an inverted world, someone was lying, too.

Just as I tried to focus on the person’s face, I was violently dragged back into the air.

It felt like I was sucked into a vacuum, and in a split second I found myself back inside the triangular shape with the red walls.

It hurled upwards through the air, and after a roller-coaster-like ride, it stopped, and spat me out through the new door in my entryway, which quickly faded and disappeared.

Very confused, I found myself back on the floor, kneeling, wearing only one shoe.

Knackered, I sat down on the floor.

I must have been sitting there for half an hour when I picked up my cellphone and called in to work to report that I wouldn’t be coming in today.

Afterwards, I undressed and went back to bed.

Something I had never done before.


I am working my way up the mountain hillside where the cable car runs on wires high above, like I’ve done so many times before.

As I gain altitude, the city draws itself out beneath me.

I love these mountains.

Always have.

I try to walk up here daily, now that I have all the time in the world again.

You see, the situation I’m in is a pretty new one.

Not like before the door opened.

After my oldest son was born, he’s 32 now, I went back to study.

To become a wireman.

At the local Polytechnic.

My interest in electronics had been with me since childhood.

I used to sit in my room and assemble little electronic kits, burning my fingers on my soldering iron.

The smell of molten lead is one of my fondest memories of the time.

Vapourised lead.

I eventually got myself a job as in repair and installation.

It’s been a career I’ve quite enjoyed, if not spectacular in any way.

We got married, bought a house near my parents’ house, then had two more kids over the years to follow.

My interest in music stayed with me as a passion, and my record collection eventually craved its own room in the house.

I loved that room.

It’s all in storage now.

As I reach the plateau at the top of the trail, I enter the small cafe at the cable-car docking station.

I buy myself a cup of green tea.

Trying to give up coffee.

There are quite a few tourists in the cafe.

They’re looking through postcards with pictures of the northern lights, our most valued natural resource.

I like that.

Magnetic shifts in the ionosphere.

That can’t be harvested, like fossil fuels.

Or maybe someday they can.

Magnetic storms could prove to be great sources of energy.

I’m sure Nicola Tesla had a plan.

I sit down by a table near the window.

I can see the whole city from here

Flickering lights.

It’s starting to get dark, even if it’s just 2PM.


Sunless days.

But still brighter than five years ago.

When everything crashed.

For all I know, I should have seen it coming.

It’s not that anything had drastically changed, but little signs had emerged.

I had, for instance, taken up martial arts.

An old childhood dream.

A clear sign of mid-life crisis, I’m sure.

In parallel, at the other side of the spectrum, I had become a part-time smoker again, after more than two decades without a single cigarette.

I guess I found both these activities liberating, at some tiny scale.

But none of these changes could warn me about what came next.

It all started one seemingly normal moring.

I got up at 0645, went downstairs and made myself coffee, as any other morning.

After a quick glance through the usual websites and social media over a couple of slices of bread with cheese, I got dressed and left for work.

My wife works shifts, so she was still fast asleep, and all the kids had moved out, which had left me to enjoy the solitude surrounding my daily rituas.

Just as I was about to walk downstairs, I saw it.

The door.

At first I just stood there, staring at it.

We have lived in this house for almost two decades.

And there has never before been a door there.

This might sound unbelievable to you, and I’m not going to lie to you; 

I will lie to you.

Lies are part of my story.

Like they’re part of the stories of most people I know.

But what I’m telling you is true.

A door had appeared at the entryway wall, where before there had only been a small mirror, and a couple of family photos in black and white.

As the initial puzzlement passed, I came to my senses, and chose to ignore it.

I hurried past it, caught my coat, left the house, and went to work, like nothing unusual had happened.

Something I would later regret.


My story is simple, really.

I was born in a small arctic town.

Back in the sixties.

My father was a captain at sea, while my mom was at home looking after me and my two brothers.

I had a fairly pleasant childhood, though I found it a bit empty and lonely at times.

So when I reached my teens, my main ambition was to get away.

And become someone else.

But I never left this place.

In fact, I still live only a stone’s throw from the red brick building where I was born.

Every time I tried to get away, some unexpected obstacle would appear, and prevent me from going anywhere.

Almost mysteriously, like at the hand of some invisible ghost.

The urge to dream up a new existence wasn’t because the one I had was unbearable in any way.

It was just that my adolescent life seemed to provide the perfect canvas to create something new upon.

So at 18, I decided that the best thing would be to leave and start again somewhere else. 

I attempted to move south, to the big city.

It seemed like a place of opportunities.

I got myself a job as a mailman, and spent most of the money I earned on buying records, and going out to see bands play live in dark clubs.

But I soon got caught in a loop, and after a few months I couldn’t get up in the morning, and just stopped turning up to work.

Needless to say, I was fired, and money soon ran out.

I decided it was the wrong city for me, and returned to my hometown.

Back home, I got myself a new job as a salesman at a local records store.

We were selling 12-inch dance singles to DJ’s, and progressive rock LP’s to middle-aged men.

And cassette tapes with mainstream eighties pop to teenagers.

It was a job I quite enjoyed.

After all, music was my main passion at the time.

But because I bought so many records for myself, I still didn’t earn much money.

One month, when I went to pick up my paycheque, an amused manager told me that I actually owned HIM money, due to the amount of records I’d picked out for myself.

So I left his office as broke as I entered.

Even if life was pretty good, due to the job, and the fact that I was in a lovely relationship with a new girlfriend, I still didn’t think the setup was right for me.

So I made new plans.

This time, I set my eyes on Berlin.

It seemed to be the European city where the most interesting music were made at the time, and an interesting place to live due to being this strange western island situated deep inside the Eastern Bloc.

This was before the wall fell.

So I quit my job and sold most of my stuff, and told my girlfriend that I needed some space, and that we would have to see where things headed.

She agreed.

But just when I was about to leave, she told me that she was pregnant.

So I stayed.

As any decent man would.